I knew this, of course, when I bought the place, but a combination of oriental fatalism and occidental conviction that such things would never happen to me persuaded me to yield, against advice, to its temptations of having this view available whenever I wanted it. (Now that it is darker there are lights in pockets of the hills, and a train like an immense glow-worm is curling around the bay far below) but the news from Italy has made my gesture seem more foolish than even fatalistic.

  My stay in Japan has been enjoyable on the whole, though I discovered that this was the year when, for totally different reasons, friends I had been accustomed to seeing every week became relatively inaccessible, putting me more on my own resources. I had a glorious week in Peking at the end of October that I will tell you about—if you wish, when I return to New York. I plan now to be back on January 18, and I’ll get in touch with you as soon as the worst of the jet lag is over. I look forward very much indeed to seeing you again.

  Last night there was a gathering in commemoration of Mishima’s death,5 exactly ten years ago. I was called on to “say a few words” and to my surprise and consternation I almost broke down, and could hardly keep speaking. What extraordinary things have happened to our friends!

  Warmest wishes, Donald

  New York, December 26, 1980

  My dear Donald—

  Your letter took long to come, and arrived only just before your lovely card. I reply with some feeling—not exactly trepidation—of anxiety that I so much want to make known to you how your letter moved me, and may not be able to do that as I wish. First, your thought for our thoughts in the Italian tragedy, which in fact never leaves my imagination. And then your depiction of your own setting, which made your mountains present to me, also in the atmosphere that flows from a loved place. We have spoken about these things, and I remember your saying—writing—in your “Meeting with Japan” that you came to depend on Japan for your happiness and thus to be sure that Japan could console you also for unhappiness. There are many for whom such a place does not exist even in fancy, and part of my own conscious joy in merely being in “my” chosen land is the sense of luck that Flaubert describes on the Nile: of gratitude that one is able to realise all this and look on with that awareness. I think that you, like me, came to this after you were quite grown up, and having enjoyed other places meantime, though not with this particular calm exultation. In my case, the sense of place was scarcely existent in childhood, and was perhaps saved up for the intensified adult pleasure later on.

  I have been thinking about going back to Naples and trying to “do something”, perhaps to write an article to draw particular attention to some aspect and so on. We left just before the catastrophe happened. My first impulse was to go back. But Francis is so much against this and indeed I doubt I could be useful. So for the present the idea is in abeyance. Also, it’s true that what I want most—and not just selfishly, or at least the selfishness is not in the simplest form—is to get on with my new work. So here I am, in the coldest days yet known to me in NY, going through the usual Christmas hurly-burly, etc. Of course there are many pleasant things—most of all seeing friends, and then expecting your arrival in three weeks or so (and I hope this letter will get to Japan before you leave). An English friend, Bruce Chatwin (wrote a book about being in Patagonia) was here briefly and particularly asked if we would arrange a meeting with you whom he greatly admires. He is returning to NY in February. He is a charmer and quite a fascinating person, more like a phenomenon that used to exist than a modern man. He is about forty, looks younger, was Sotheby’s youngest director ever at about twenty-four, but bolted from that to “travel” in the old way, for adventures of the mind as well as eye and body and, as Custine said, “to visit other centuries.” Well, will “get hold of him” when he returns (a baleful expression that, I always think). Tomorrow night we are going to Les Carmelites at the Metrop. Opera—a work that by no means meets Ivan’s conditions for suitable opera, but an impressive one I think. Yes, what extraordinary things have happened to our friends, as you say. Ivan’s death remains an unresolved event and—for that and other reasons—unabsorbed in the way that such sorrows usually are. Once in a while it comes over me quite freshly that we shall never meet again, and the same protest rises up at a mindless tragedy. There was an article here on the anniversary of Mishima’s death—I kept it, and shall show it to you if you would be interested. Yes, emphatically, we would like to hear about your time in Peking. Having suffered from homesickness for the east since I left it over thirty years ago, I find it curious that I quite fear any return there. Yet I find I return to it increasingly in my writing.

  About the world, the less said the better. We have been in touch by phone with our Neapolitan friends—all intact, but of course greatly distressed by the misery surrounding them. A poor man with large family, whom I have known since 1956, wrote me just now that they survived “con l’aiuto del Signore” the terrible experience, including the worst earthquake, which struck their house and “ci ha costretti, io e tutta la famiglia, a passare cinque notti di terrore e paura, all’addiaccio e in mezzo alla strada.” Well, we have both—you and I, I mean—chosen the earthquake zone. Thank you for asking about Capri—there, they had only “fright”, no damage. It would be a severe fright too, if one thinks of all those teetering crags that are the Caprese landscape.

  The usual—or worse than usual—politics go on, and the inexorable false declarations by politicians. Do you remember, in “War and Peace”, in the phase when Prince Andrei takes up a position on a govt committee and runs around seeing “important” people, how he notices in passing that he did the same thing more than once that day????

  Let us meet soon—shall be in touch on your return. We must have a quiet evening here, and “laugh about things that are grave in the suburbs.” Thank you again for your beautiful letter. With warmest new year greetings from us both, and with much affection from Shirley.

  New York, September 5, 81

  Dear Donald—your welcome card comes just as I’m packing to return to Italy until mid-November. We’ve had some summer adventures, including a week at Tunis in June; but no plans for Australia or Japan at present, alas. However, I must send a quick word—ad interim—abt your own trip to Aust. Yesterday we had here at lunch a delightful friend, Edmund Capon, who is now director with the Gallery of NSW, at Sydney, and who longs to meet you. You no doubt know he is an orientalist, was with the V & A, is editor of “Oriental Art” (which, he says, you’ve contributed to); and he has already done much for Aust in, eg, organising a splendid travelling show of Chinese painting—some works which had never before left China. I am giving him yr Tokyo address—I hope that is alright?—and he will write to you. He is overjoyed to learn that you will be in Aust. [. . .]

  My great friend at Sydney is a fine writer & lovely woman, Elizabeth Harrower; a great & gentle soul. She is in Mosman, NSW, 2088 (a seaside suburb of Sydney, where indeed I went to school—my ten years of defective but entire education . . .). [. . .] She knows masses of writers, painters, etc., but perhaps you will not want such jamborees and she is delightful to be alone with. [. . .] A quite different but also v nice woman is Mrs. Anne Lewis, a lively presence in the visual arts in Aust. [. . .] Then, Don Dunstan, former premier of the state of South Australia, who has a strong interest in oriental art and affairs, and arranged exhibitions of—eg Thai sculpture—Eastern art in Adelaide.

  [. . .]

  With love—Shirley

  Tokyo, September 19, 1981

  Dear Shirley, thank you so much for your letter. It was good of you to write even while in the midst of packing. I shall treasure the information in your letter. I’m disappointed that you and Francis will not be there, but of course I realized how unlikely a coincidence that would have been.

  My tour of New Zealand and Australia is being arranged by the Japan Foundation. They have decided that it is more effective to have a non-Japanese praise Japanese culture, rather than a Japanese who might be too diffident—or else a Japanese who would say, in the manner of a Sinhalese I once heard in New York, “Many, many years ago when your ancestors ran about in the forests of Europe with nothing but a smudge of blue to conceal their nakedness, my ancestors enjoyed a high degree of civilization.”

  The Japan Foundation people are extremely kind and helpful, but they also want to get their money’s worth, so I will lecture at three places in New Zealand and five in Australia. Unfortunately, the only month I could get away for the necessary travel is December, precisely when the Australian universities are having their summer holidays. So I can’t count on a ready-made audience. I will be lecturing in Australia in Melbourne, Canberra, Sydney, Brisbane and Perth. After reading your letter about Adelaide I decided I wanted to go there, but there just doesn’t seem to be any possibility of adding another city, and the other five cities all have displayed special interest in Japanese studies.

  [. . .]

  My big news is that earlier this week I completed the manuscript of the two modern volumes of my history of Japanese literature.6 Fourteen years! Of course, there will still be queries from the editor and various minor things to attend to, but it is a wonderful feeling. And I’m so glad that completion of the book will not be hanging over me when I go to Australia. It still hasn’t really seeped into my brain that the book is done. I keep going into bookstores to look for this or that elusive volume I need, to realize that at some point I decided not to write about that particular author.

  My book about opera singers also came out this week. It has a very youthful picture of Boris Christoff, among others. I doubt that any publisher would be interested in the English text of the book. In Japan there is a curiously strong interest in writings by amateurs about the different arts, no doubt because the professionals tend to be so learned and so dreary as to dampen all pleasure in music or art criticism.

  All my best to you and Francis.

  Yours, Donald

  Postcard, Naples, October 22, 1981

  Dear Donald—

  Thank you so much for your letter; and our many many congratulations on completion of your mighty work. What labour, and what achievement. Francis says he has an inkling of what you feel. For me, the consummation of such an attempt is mind boggling. When we are all together again, we must celebrate it. Also—my Lord!—your book on opera singers. 1981 is annus mirabilis for you. (And here we have commemorations of the Bimillenario of the death of Virgil. This Tennysonian event v. moving in its manifestations . . .)

  Don Dunstan was here briefly, & hopes very much to be in Sydney at the time of your visit. [. . .] Edmund Capon will have written you?—with love—Shirley.

  Brisbane, December 15, 1981

  Dear Shirley,

  I’m now in what is undoubtedly the most luxurious hotel accommodation I have ever occupied. I have a bedroom of generous proportions, a sitting room for a considerable gathering, two bathrooms, a bar furnished with domestic & imported liquors, and clothes closets about the size of the hotel rooms I more normally occupy. The view of Brisbane from my windows on the 20th floor of the Lennox Plaza Hotel would be even better if it weren’t raining, but I have successfully brought rain to every city in New Zealand and Australia I have visited, even some which were suffering from drought.

  But what a delightful two weeks this has been! The first lecture, in Auckland, was attended by well over 500 people, the largest gathering by far, and the local paper reported formally on the professor from “Japan Columbia University”. I liked Wellington which is built vertically along a thin strip of land between the mountains and the sea. Christchurch was quiet & rather English in appearance. Queenstown was remarkably beautiful.

  But I needn’t prolong the travelogue. My first purpose in writing was to tell you how kind your friends have been to me, & how much they have contributed to making this rather frantic tour of Australia into a memorable experience. [. . .]

  Sydney was the only place where I had time to myself. [. . .] I was invited to dinner by the Capons, who had thoughtfully invited my friends plus the Japanese consul general & his wife. It was a thoroughly delightful evening, which might have lasted much longer if I had not had a lecture the next day.

  I regret to say that I tried repeatedly without success to reach Elizabeth Harrower that day & rather despaired of ever finding her, but I finally got through & we arranged to have lunch together on Monday, the 14th. I can tell instantly why you and she are such great friends. We talked without reserve as if we had known each other for years. After lunch we walked here and there, still talking, went into a book shop where I bought some recent Australian novels & poetry. (I was also pleased to see an Australian paperback edition of The Transit of Venus.)

  The talk in Sydney went well, I think. There was a large gathering, including a three-year-old girl in the second row who was on her best behavior and did not so much as yawn. [. . .] I went to a rather dull gathering at the House of the Japanese consul general, who (unlike the Capons) seems to have chosen his guests for their rank rather than their interest in the sorts of things that interest me. But that is uncharitable—it was a pleasant occasion that was simply not up to the exceptional occasions that have been provided by your friends.

  This evening a lecture here in Brisbane, then tomorrow I leave for Perth. I’ll have a few days to idle in the sun in Bali before returning to Japan. If it is cool & rainy in Brisbane where I know no one, I shall really be disappointed.

  So thank you again for having made this so special a journey. My best wishes to you & Francis for Christmas and the New Year. I eagerly look forward to seeing you both in January.

  Yours, Donald

  New York, August 29, 1982

  Dear Donald—

  Thank you so much for your card—we tried to telephone you in NYC, thinking you might be here for those proofs you spoke of. As yet, no luck—“Nessun risposta”—so I send this word and enclosures to your Tokyo pad. If I were to cut out all the “Japanese” items in the NYT you’d be inundated. A burgeoning interest, thanks to you and a few other lofty souls.

  The world is appalling—thank heaven people such as ourselves live, in part, “out” of it, in a longer “reality”. One of Flaubert’s best letters to Louise Colet tells of his young cook who knows nothing of the deposition of Bonaparte, restoration of the monarchy, etc etc. Flaubert says: “That woman is a model for us all.” While you’ve been suffering through floods, Italy (S from Florence, to Sicily) has had a horrific drought: NO rain for nearly six months, record-breaking & sustained heat. For the first time in all my memory, even Capri had days & nights never below 90° and often over 100°. The countryside is desolate—drought giving way to fires throughout the peninsula; except in the Lake district, where of course there is incessant rain. Meanwhile, NYC is enjoying August, a rational mixture of sunshine & clear nights . . .

  [. . .]

  Beautiful things we saw this summer. The world can be thrilling if left to its better self. Do you know the writings of Custine?—what a remarkable person, one splendid aphorism after another . . .

  Your card is delightful. Rabbits seem to have lent themselves to anthropomorphism in a number of cultures. It must be that twitching visage that most suggests the human face . . .

  [. . .]

  —With much friendship from us both and with love—Shirley.

  Tokyo, September 24, 1982

  Dear Shirley,

  Thank you very much for your letter and for the various articles you enclosed. Thank you and Francis also for having written the man at the New York Times about Ivan. The article was welcome, but it was written on the basis of what an informant at Princeton told him—or so it seems anyway. Ivan was never given due recognition by the professional Japanologists. I am not sure why this was so. He did not write learned articles for obscure orientalist periodicals, it is true, but his extraordinary translations of The Pillow Book or the diary which he called As I Crossed A Bridge of Dreams were ample proof of his ability to handle gracefully even rather difficult materials. He made mistakes, some of them rather elementary, because he really had not lived long enough in Japan to acquire the everyday knowledge that one cannot easily acquire from books. Because he spent relatively little time in Japan he was also unknown to the Japanese public. That may be why he never received a decoration or similar recognition from the Japanese government. After his death I addressed several pleas to the officials concerned that he be given a posthumous decoration; but obviously he had enemies or at any rate people who were unwilling to give him what he so clearly merited. I am glad that you wrote the letter. It is unlikely that they will do a supplementary article in the near future, but they presumably will keep the letter on file for whenever the time comes for another article on Japanese literature.

  The copy-edited text of my manuscript has been reaching me with the agonising slowness. The complete manuscript was delivered last October. The publishers did nothing about it until February, when it was sent to an aged and infirm copy editor. She disgorged one chunk in June and another in August, and I have been waiting for the third and final section ever since. It takes me approximately four days to do what she takes four or five months to do. Her main concern seems to be to make this the first absolutely non-sexist history of Japanese literature. Mankind is always replaced by humankind, and if I refer to the reader as “he”, this is naturally changed to “he or she”. And the word “person” is used so often it becomes ludicrous. “If a person meets a person and that person . . .” I have restored my original versions only occasionally. It is not a matter for which I am prepared to die. But I know, though the copy editor does not, that in Japanese everyone, man and woman, single and married, is referred to as—san, and there is no trace of equality between the sexes.